


until the lights come on

by HowCleverOfYou



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bulimia, Depression, M/M, PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shameless use of Coldplay, Suicide Attempt, War flashbacks, definitely not as tragic as it sounds, radio show, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowCleverOfYou/pseuds/HowCleverOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a radio show on channel 62 that runs from midnight ‘til five, where the host plays whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until the lights come on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Nikki!

There’s a radio show on channel 62 that runs from midnight ‘til five, where the host plays whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants. He swears and he laughs at his own bad jokes and he harasses callers, and sometimes someone will come in and yell at Thomas, audible over the air. Thomas will just sass right back even though his job is probably on the line on a daily basis. But apparently he makes enough money to get him just over the threshold and as long as he’s making money, they can’t do jackshit about it.

Edward is depressed, and with his depression comes insomnia, so every night from midnight ‘til five, he has his radio tuned to Tendrils of Smoke. Sometimes, while he listens, he studies his Braille or takes a bath or adds to the blanket he’s been knitting for going on three years (and getting nowhere; really, does knitting ever fucking grow?) or puts some paint on a canvas, all that shit that his therapist and friends think he might enjoy. In reality, it irritates and bores him, doing all these things and not being able to see the fucking results.

He has a job, transcribing audio files or translating Braille. He tap tap taps away at his laptop and sings along to whatever’s on the radio, and when Thomas takes his fifteen minute break at three-thirty, Edward turns down the volume and listens to his computer read his words back to him. If he fucks anything up, whatever; they run everything he does through an intern anyway. They probably don’t know that he knows they’re fact-checking the blind guy. Probably don’t give a shit. Never mind. He’d do the same thing if the positions were reversed.

He doesn’t call in to Tendrils of Smoke until November, four months after he’s started listening. It’s a Thursday night (Friday morning?) and Edward’s splayed out on his bed, just lying there under the blankets and wondering why sleep and sadness repel each other like poles with the same charge.

He picks up the stupid chunky cordless phone that sits next to his bed. It has Braille inscriptions and it pisses him off that he uses them to orient himself before dialing because he hates the goddamned thing. Before, he had a sleek, black little thing, no bumps to read or numbers to listen to repeat themselves.

Once the mechanized voice goes away, he’s passed through a channel or two before Thomas’s voice filters through, rough. “You got a request or a comment?”

“Request,” Edward replies, ignoring the tightening in his belly. So maybe he’s got a little bit of a crush on the DJ – or maybe he wants to be him, wants to talk so fearlessly to anyone and everyone and not give a shit what they say in return. Thomas rags on people he barely knows and he doesn’t show any regret. Edward’s heard him make a public apology once or twice, but that makes Thomas less of a douche and more of just a jackass.

“I’ll talk to you in a sec,” Thomas says, rushed, and the hold music blasts suddenly into Edward’s ear. He grimaces and pulls the phone away from his ear, then sighs, shifting a little in his bed to get more comfortable.

On the radio, Thomas’ voice introduces the next song. Before the first cords even begin, Thomas’ voice is saying, “Whatchya got?” in Edward’s ear.

“Uh,” Edward says, because all of a sudden he’s a little bit tongue-tied. He forgets sometimes that the depression brings him down a few notches, back to where he’s scared to go to the store or make a phone call because _what if somebody notices?_ “Can you play Low by Coldplay?”

“Ah, shit,” Thomas says. “You’re coming on air. Give me another minute. Name?”

“Edward,” he manages around the sudden lump in his throat. God, he used to not _care_. He tries to assure himself that it’s way past The Time of Good Decisions and that everyone’s asleep.

The song on the radio – something a little bit harder than Edward likes – fizzles out, then there’s a crackling over Edward’s phone.

“I’ve got Edward on the line here tonight,” Thomas introduces smoothly. “What do you want to hear?”

“Low,” he repeats, heart pounding in his chest. “Coldplay, not Flo Rida.”

“You down tonight?” Thomas asks, but before Edward can answer (was he even going to?), Thomas continues. “Come on, they’ve got so many other great songs, if you’re into that kind of thing. I’m not a big fan.”

“You’ve played them before,” Edward points out.

“Yes,” Thomas allows. “I’ll play just about anyone. The only person that’s banned on here is Ed Sheeran, because I got creepily obsessed with him and he’s a great deal younger than I am, you know, and he wouldn’t _marry_ me. I snuck into his hotel room once, tried to give him a little kiss while he was sleeping, but I got caught.”

Edward doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m kidding,” Thomas says mildly. “I will literally play _anything_. But if you’re sad, you need a screamer song, right? You need to let out that _sadness._ I’ve got just the song for you, Edward.”

Edward is disconnected without warning, and, sure enough, the radio begins to upchuck some screamo. He irritably turns the volume down so it’s just a faint annoyance and turns onto his other side, trying to get comfortable, god damn. Maybe he needs to get some sleeping pills prescribed. He doubts they’d give him anything, though, not after The Mishap where he almost bled out from the wrists.

(He had been so fucking close.)

Sleep is obviously not coming and the screamo is finishing off and Edward’s head is pounding. He’s not going to get up. He’s not going to get up. He’s not going to get up. If he gets up, he’ll go into the bathroom and get some of the pain meds he’d been given after his eye surgery. If he gets up, he’s going to take more than he’s supposed to.

Thomas’ voice filters out of the radio, and Edward wouldn’t have turned over and turned it back up if he hadn’t caught his name.

“I do hope you feel better,” Thomas is saying, and it’s the most heartfelt thing Edward has heard him say yet. Once, there had been a guy who had just broken up with his girlfriend of five years and was crying over the phone, requesting her favorite song, and Thomas had made fun of him until the guy hung up. He could be cruel, there was no doubt in Edward’s mind, but moments like these were what made Edward keep coming back.

Thomas puts on Coldplay, and Edward finally falls asleep.

—

Edward calls again a week later, on that cusp between light and dark, and on the ever-steep slope of not being able to _sleep_. He fucking hates being nocturnal like this, setting with the moon, but the only way he can konk out is if he goes and goes and goes until he can’t do it anymore.

This time he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a paintbrush and a cheap cardboard canvas. His feet are bare and his legs ache from the forced physical activity that his therapist makes him partake in, but tonight’s not a bad night and he just wants to hear _something._

Thomas recognizes him by name, probably because he doesn’t get many callers.

“Coldplay again?” he asks.

“Sure,” Edward says. “I’m painting. Inspire me.”

He gives Edward Hurts Like Heaven, with spray can souls and revolution, and Edward’s toes tap against the tile to the beat of the song.

—

It becomes a Thing, calling every week at the same time. Thomas will ask how he’s feeling, what he’s in the mood for, and it’s Coldplay, always Coldplay. Edward wonders why Thomas doesn’t rag him harder about liking Coldplay so much, wonders why every Thursday night/Friday morning he puts on Chris and Jonny and Guy and Will and doesn’t so much as make a snarky comment.

One night in January, Thomas tells him to wait, then announces there’s going to be a ten minute music slot, for which he lists the names of the songs. Then he’s back on the phone with Edward, and he wants to talk.

“Why’re you always up this late?”

Edward rotates his ankles, listening to them click and pop against the mattress. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’ve got a job,” Thomas challenges. Edward can’t muster up the energy anymore to be excited that he’s talking to the host of his favorite radio station (like he ever listens to anything besides Tendrils of Smoke).

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Hey,” Thomas says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. It isn’t mean, not like Edward’s heard him laugh before. “No judgment here, some of us are just night owls.”

“I’ve perpetual insomnia.”

There’s some shuffling in the background on Thomas’ end of the line. “Yeah? You take anything for it?”

“They don’t trust me with anything,” because he’s talked to Thomas for just a moment every Thursday night Friday morning for almost two months. Thomas doesn’t push it, and Edward’s thankful for that.

“What do you do all night? Besides listen to my show.”

They talk for the ten minute time slot Thomas has set, and then in three minute intervals during songs. Thomas makes a sound of annoyance every time a song ends, and he’s in and out, ignoring requests and calls and sometimes saying, “Fuck this, what do you want to listen to?”

It’s five o’clock when Thomas’ voice disappears from his speaker and reappears in his radio to give his signing off. Then he picks up again and Edward is getting tired, his eyes struggling to stay open.

“Alfred and Jimmy’ll be here in a sec,” Thomas says. “They run the show after me so I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” Edward says, fighting back a yawn.

“I’ll talk to you next week.”

“Have a good day.”

“Get some rest, Edward.”

Thomas doesn’t call him Ed or Eddy or any number of the nicknames Edward hates. He doesn’t understand why people shorten names – if you’re going to call your kid Ed, fucking name him Ed. He’s not going to call Thomas Tom, half because it’s fucking dumb and half because what if he’s using a pseudonym? That would be doubly fucking retarded, shortening Thomas’ fake name and giving him a _double_ fake name. Twofold.

Edward runs a hand through his hair and wonders maybe, maybe, if Thomas would touch him like that. God, he’s such a goddamn weirdo.

“You too, Thomas.”

—

They talk every Thursday night for weeks, and Edward wants their conversations to be longer and without the constant interruption of, you know, Thomas’ job, and preferably in Edward’s bed with Thomas rutting on top of him. But they’re here for now, swapping stories and anecdotes over the phone, and Edward’s phone bill is probably going to be fucking astronomical.

Thomas tells Edward about working alone and Edward says, “That must get lonely,” and Thomas only says, “Nah, not really. I’ve got you to talk to now, don’t I?” and Edward blushes because he’s twelve fucking years old and he should be writing _Mr. Edward_ whatever the fuck Thomas’ last name is in his notebooks because he’s probably that far gone.

Thomas plays Coldplay every night at the same time, when he knows Edward is listening, even if they’re not talking. In February, the show’s ratings fall, and Thomas seems more aggravated on the air, but he mentions a conversation he’d had with an ex-boyfriend of his about music. The Thursday afterwards, he tells Edward, “If they try and take me off air now, I can go after them for discrimination,” which is fucking awful and also very Thomas, so Edward just laughs at his scrappy sense of survival.

They don’t talk about their pasts a lot, but there’s one night in March where Edward is a little bit drunk (three weeks until The Anniversary, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to deal with it) and Thomas sounds like he’s a little bit high, and when Thomas says, “They’ve always pushed me around, you know, ‘cause I’m different,” Edward’s heart pounds when he says, “I’m different, too,” because he doesn’t need context to hear Thomas’ breath catch a little bit.

He doesn’t need context because the next Thursday, when he calls in, Thomas sets up a twenty minute block of song and gives his undivided attention to Edward. There’s something off about his breathing and Edward is almost worried that he’s sick or that his cigarettes have finally gotten the better of him (and neither of these make sense because Edward had been listening to him talk on the radio just seconds before), but then it hits him, and his chest tightens.

Thomas is jerking himself off, breaths quiet and short, and Edward says, “Thomas,” and Thomas says, “Is this okay? Fuck, I should have said that first, I’m not good at this, fuck,” and Edward slides his own hand into his own boxers and says, “ _Thomas_.”

(Edward has the best night’s sleep he’s had in months. Almost a year, actually, because The Anniversary is right around the corner.)

—

He wakes up on Thursday morning, because of course it’s a Thursday morning, and barely makes it to the loo before he’s throwing up. His fingers hurt when he shoves them in the back of his throat and he doesn’t like the feeling of them coated in saliva, but he does it anyway, bringing up whatever he can until there’s nothing left to come up. Then he stumbles into the kitchen and pulls the alcohol out of where he’s stashed it in the closet. He doesn’t know what it is until he takes a sip, and then he’s coughing because, fuck, yes, it’s the good stuff.

He lies down on the living room floor and tries to drink like that, but chokes and hates the way he sits up, wheezing, instead of lying down and taking it. Fuck, he should be drowning in it.

His stomach hurts from the alcohol on his empty stomach and from the sobs that wrack his entire body, so he drags himself back to the toilet and throws everything up again, and fuck. He shouldn’t be alive. He’s a piece of shit. Look at this fucker that God let live, retching and crying on the tile.

He hates himself because he’s too much of a fucking coward to slit his own wrists.

He doesn’t keep track of time, just tries to push away the memory of Hathaway’s arm – and it was only his arm, fuck, Hathaway was still across the Humvee – falling into his lap. Tries to close his eyes against the ghost of Lennie’s bloody face lolled toward him, scraped and scratched, and Edward knows it got worse once the second explosion came, but he couldn’t see after that.

The radio on his bedside table is set to a timer, so at midnight, Thomas’ voice took over the apartment, announcing the date and time and launching right into his music. Edward crawls into his bedroom and leans up against the bed, defeated. He listens to Thomas talk and knows that they’re not going to speak today.

Thursday night bleeds into Friday morning. It’s time for Edward to pick up the phone and call; he can tell because Thomas’ voice is lighter. He doesn’t sound so sullen. But Edward lets the window slip by, and it’s another five songs before Thomas says, “I guess my number one fan is wrapped up elsewhere tonight. Edward, buddy, if you’ve got a sec, this one’s for you.”

Edward had mentioned before that he was sad, but Thomas didn’t know the extent of it. He didn’t know why, just that where normal people were happy with a few dark spots, he was a storm without sunshine. He couldn’t remember the last time he was happy – before the war, probably, maybe laughing with Hathaway and Lennie right before they got hit. He couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d never been happy; he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to smile for real.

Thomas plays Fix You, and that gives Edward the strength to slide the razor out from underneath his mattress and press it to his skin.

Tendrils of Smoke ends and Jimmy and Alfred’s show starts, and Edward hasn’t been able to make more than a few swipes, not deep enough to cause any real damage. He wishes Thomas was back on so he could die listening to his voice.

Instead, he cuts his wrists halfway through Little Talks. And then he waits.

—

He fails because he’s a piece of shit. His sister comes by at seven with his groceries because she’s one of those goddamn early risers. Edward feels tired and frustrated because the bleeding is sluggish and maybe he cut himself wrong or something. Leave it up to him to cock up a fucking suicide attempt.

Julianne calls the ambulance, and then they stick him in the rehab clinic, telling him that his parents are in charge of his medical decisions until he’s cleared by a psychologist. He’s sure they’re bending the rules a bit because he’s well over eighteen. He wants to tell them this, wants to scream it until his throat is raw, wants to rip out the stitches in his wrist and bleed all over their sheets, but he’s tired anyway on top of whatever they’re running through his system so he just closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

He presses the call button when he wakes up, and one of the night nurses – the one with the smooth Irish voice who Edward wants to hide his problems away from – responds to the call, rushing through the door and sighing in relief when he sees that Edward isn’t in any immediate pain.

“Could I have a radio?” he asks.

“A radio,” Nurse Branson repeats, considering. “I’m sure I could find you one.”

It’s one in the morning and it makes Edward angry that he’s missed an hour. He grips his arm tight, stubby fingernails scratching into his skin, to punish himself for that.

When he tunes it to Tendrils of Smoke, it’s in the middle of a song, something by the Muse that’s been played before. When Thomas’ voice cuts in a moment later, he sounds good, nothing at all like his world’s been rocked, and Edward feels stupid for assuming he would be torn up. So Edward missed one phone call. So Thomas had gone home while Edward tried to bleed himself to death. So, so, so.

He wants to knock the radio onto the floor, but he doesn’t think they’d bring him a new one if he did. So he sits in his bed, listening to whatever Thomas plays. He doesn’t sleep. At half past two, Thomas plays Warning Sign and says, “My number one fan is currently in hiding, so this one’s for you, Edward.”

He hadn’t hurt himself in a long time – for a few weeks after he Got Back, then again for a while in the middle. He doesn’t know why nobody thought that The Anniversary would be an issue. He doesn’t know why everyone believed him when he said he’d be okay. Maybe they all knew. Maybe they’re all tired of him.

He’s tired of himself.

Before he can do something stupid like bite himself or scratch his wrists, he calls Nurse Branson again to give him a dose of something, anything, and falls asleep as Thomas says his goodbyes.

—

He’s in the hospital for just over two weeks, and he listens to Thomas every night, like he’s back at home. He listens to Thomas go through the stages – first he’s hopeful that Edward will call, and says as much; and then he’s sad and angry, and he swears and fights more with the callers. He’s resigned; then, on the Saturday two weeks After, he sounds okay again. Edward hates Thomas and hates himself and wishes he wasn’t such a goddamned failure.

On Monday, a therapist clears him, and he checks himself out against medical advice. He signs the papers and they wheel him outside, completely un fucking necessarily and then, there. He’s free, and Julianne and Jack aren’t there to pick him up or take him home. The nurse on call – some girl he hears bemoaning her great despairs in the hall sometimes – phones him a taxi.

He’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk because he doesn’t give a shit anymore, wants someone to jostle him so that he falls out in the street, when, suddenly, there’s a swarm of dogs around his feet. They’re all panting and yipping and they keep stepping on his shoes.

“Sorry, sorry,” someone says. “Isis, get off of the poor man, Jesus. He’s not going to marry you. Sorry, she hates me, she won’t listen –“

Edward can barely force the words out, but when he finally gets his tongue under control, the man has successfully detangled him and is about to walk away. “Thomas?”

He knows the man stops walking because one of the dogs comes back over and sniffs at his leg.

“Yes,” Thomas says. Edward wonders if he’s looking at the sunglasses or the cane or if he’s just trying to place his face. Edward knows he doesn’t recognize him when he says, all polite, “Have we met?”

“I’m Edward.”

“You – fuck.” He doesn’t know if Thomas has put it together yet, the hospital and Edward standing outside of it. One of the dogs starts mouthing at his cane and he shakes it off. “Are you – okay?”

“No,” he says. “Sorry I missed the calls.”

“What happened? Are you – fuck, Jesus Christ, sit the fuck down, all of you – do you want to talk? Do you need a ride?”

Edward doesn’t want to stand talking on the sidewalk, surrounded by dogs that interrupt them, so he says, “Yes.”

—

Thomas doesn’t let him go home, insisting that he needs someone to look after him, so Edward sits on Thomas’ couch and sleeps in his bed and gets dragged along to the studio and to the store and out around the city while Thomas works his second job – walking dogs.

He doesn’t find out about Thomas’ Thing until later the first night, when he’s kissing Edward up against the pillows. Edward grips at his shoulder blades, at his elbow, and moves down to tangle their fingers together and –

There’s nothing.

He’s startled by the fact that Thomas’ left arm ends at the wrist, and Thomas must catch on, because he pulls away abruptly and says, “Sorry, the prosthetic is uncomfortable; I can put it back on if you want,” and then, “Oh, fuck, you didn’t know.”

“What happened?” he asks, rubbing his hands over the stub. It’s healed; he can feel the scars, but they’re thin and flat. He can also feel the indentations from the prosthetic and wonders why he didn’t realize. Oh, shit. This is probably what he meant when he told Edward he’s different. He panics for a moment, wondering if maybe he misinterpreted their relationship, but then he realized that he can _feel_ Thomas up against his thigh, so probably not.

“Infection,” Thomas says, “a long, long time ago.” He rubs his thumb against the smattering of scars around Edward’s eye and says softly, “Is this why?”

“This is always why.” He reaches up himself and touches the puckered skin there, wishing he could erase it. Thomas swears quietly and then laughs abruptly.

“Look at us,” he says. “The no-see-‘em and the gimp. We’re quite the pair.”

—

It’s June, and Edward is sitting in the recording booth with Thomas, tap tap tapping at his keyboard, transcribing the audio that’s bleeding in through his one earbud, half-listening to Thomas shuffle around with the other ear.

“Coffee?” Thomas asks.

“No, thanks,” Edward says, because he knows that the studio’s coffee tastes like shit no matter what the time. He’s almost done with the track, and then he can shut his laptop and relax for a little bit, listen to Thomas talk until Jimmy and Alfred get here. Then they can go back to the apartment and Thomas can fall asleep on top of Edward, heavy and snoring.

He doesn’t know what Thomas does in between songs – putters around, plays with some shit that he has on his desk, makes pot after pot of shitty coffee – but he likes listening to him go through his motions. They work together, quiet but always there; this way, they have uninterrupted free time. (To sleep, to kiss, to walk dogs.)

Thomas picks up call waiting and the guy goes, “It’s been over ten years – don’t you think it’s time for Coldplay to just, you know, go away?”

Edward says, “Fuck, no,” and wheels his chair over, plucking the headset off of Thomas before he can say anything. “Hey, this is resident Coldplay expert Edward, and I’m here to school your sorry fucking ass.”

He argues with the guy about Coldplay’s relevance and talent and eventually the guy flounders and lets him win and Edward says, “Here’s a fucking masterpiece by them, okay? If you don’t appreciate Violet Hill, there’s absolutely no hope for you.”

Edward isn’t happy because he doesn’t _get_ happy, but the way Thomas kisses him after he hands the headset back is as close as he’s gotten in a long time.


End file.
